Hello and thank you for picking up this RAPR fic! My name is Charlie, I'm the author here, and you'll see my little notes at the beginning and end of every chapter! I am so appreciative of you all for following my work, if you came here from my other fic "My Kind," and if you're completely new to my work, welcome to the lovely family darlings! I promise I don't bite!
A few notes; This fic is rated M overall. I always post the chapter ratings at the beginning of every chapter with potential warnings for the content. This fic will include brief heavy language, graphic depictions of blood/violence/gore, implied/mentioned physical abuse, perilous situations, and explicit sexual content. I wanted to warn you just in case!
Also; I really do appreciate reviews, even if they are anonymous, because that lets me know what you guys like and what you don't, and what you would like to see in further chapters! I do take recommendations and suggestions into account when writing, so be sure to leave one if you have one! Thank you angels!
Chapter rated M for graphic depictions of violence/blood, brief heavy language, perilous situations, mentions of abuse in the past tense, suggestive themes, and general adult themes.
"Cross your legs. Wait, let me see how they look uncrossed. Yes, like that…mm…I don't know. I think you'll have more success with them crossed respectfully while you hold your hands in your lap. What do you think?"
Purple did as he was told, delicately crossing his legs and looking away out of embarrassment to stare out the window of his Irken transport Shuuver, watching as the bright, blinding snow of the countryside below glinted in the pale glow of the distant Callnowian sun. He swallowed his pride and tried not to let his humiliation shine through his carefully chosen, approved expression, refusing to make eye contact as his personal advisor scribbled furious notes in the plush, worn leather of the seat across from him.
His advisor's frown deepened and he reached forward with a gloved hand, snapping fervently for Purple's lilting attention as he lost himself to the endless expanses of dastardly ice rolling by in swathes below their thrusters. "Pay attention when I'm talking to you, cadet. I asked you what you thought about the way you looked." He sneered, peering through his prescription goggles as his wrinkled jowls continued their decline.
Purple shrugged flippantly, moving up with a free hand to tug at the horrendously stiff Elite collar ringing his neck as he caught sight of a massive Irken platoon below, shivering as they marched in time with a bright green battle flag through the frost. He eyed the metal of razed battle mechs trudging along behind them, admiring the pits and horrendous dents dotting their exoskeletons from heavy plasma fire. He licked his lips when his mouth practically watered to jump free from his proverbial prison and sling himself down to finally do what Irkens did best; destroy. He had been pulled out of his regiment before he could deploy nearly two cycles ago to be domesticated against his will, gussied up and cultivated as an expendable curio for a woman he had no interest in, and forced to move about with false grace and poise that nauseated him beyond belief. He had gone through the Academy and back-breaking military training for fervent cycles, learning the ins and outs of how to expertly fire a searing hot plasma rifle booming under his fingers and pilot the many legs of an Vortian made Spider Tank, coming out as the second in his class for marksmanship and receiving commendations from his commanding officer. He was a machine, a blistering, gorgeous example of shining Irken strength and fortitude, but…he was also prized for other things. Other things he wished with every fiber of his young, rebellious soul that he could strip away from his form and forget for the rest of his hopefully long life.
Beauty. He was cloned from the finest strand of DNA and hatched in the most prestigious Smeetery in all of Irk to grow into something highly coveted….unfortunately.
"I'm not a cadet." He mumbled in response, throwing his chin in the crook of his palm as he longed for the toils of the violent, bloodthirsty battle raging below that he would never be given the privilege to see. "And who cares what my legs look like? Isn't that superficial, or something?"
The advisor gave an over animated gasp of disappointed shock, reaching out and bopping Purple lightly on the side of the face with an open handed smack, a glint of sadistic satisfaction flashing in his deep amber gaze when his target yelped in sudden surprise. "Superficial? How dare you take our venture so lightly!" The short little thing snorted haughtily, shaking his head in dissatisfaction when Purple rubbed at the slowly deepening mark stamped over his cheek. "You were chosen for a reason, and every detail must be perfect if our Empire is to properly form this treaty with the Callnowian government. If you fail, we may not have another chance to end this war." He flipped through his electronic reader, mumbling indistinctly to himself as he reminded his meticulously developed plaything of his singular purpose. "The Prime Minister of Callnowia has requested the following in exchange for peace, should you forget," he cleared his throat, "A height of six feet, no more no less, violet eyes, soft unscarred skin, less than 220 cycles of age, with enough manners and political awareness to marry her daughter. Need I say more?"
Purple rolled his eyes as the familiar despondency he'd come to know over the past months crept back up into his chest, constricting his already suffocating spooch as they lazed closer on towards his unfortunate fate. The Callnowian Prime Minister had been ruthlessly attacking Irken outposts around their star system for far too long, raiding food supplies and depleting munitions to undermine planned invasions set to overtake the western half of the galaxy and halting Irken expansion by nearly 75% in the last cycle alone. She claimed to have her reasons, stating that the rate of Irken imperialism through the cosmos was worrying and troublesome to her people and the sanctity of her own planet's precious independence, holding many fervent peace talks with Tallest Del in attempts to convince him to stop his blinding sweep to no avail when he refused. Violent war had broken out between the two technologically advanced planets and a draft was instilled, Purple being pulled from his previous job as a microbiologist working on cleaner chemical and biological warfare to train with millions to ascend and participate in thunder runs across their enemy's homeworld; razing, obliterating bombing streaks that pounded whole forests and cities to ash as they burned under the heat of canon fire. He had practiced, firing on simulated front lines of screeching Callnowian bodies as their many, deep black eyes stared back with thrashing claws as he laid waste to their forms and ate away at every bit of holographic flesh he could find. He had been incredibly nervous for the real thing, sure, but he was also determined to prove to himself and his platoon that he was able to hold his own as a daunting hero to the Irken Empire.
Then came the talks of the Irken-Callnowian Flesh Treaty.
Purple heard rumors of the docket in the beginning back when he was finally graduating from the Academy again with his second degree in technical military operations, reading furiously over what little information the public had been given. At first, Tallest Del had held a statewide conference on Conventia with Prime Minister Ipi, the two shaking hands and agreeing to a cease fire under one condition; political marriage. Ipi had demanded a foothold on Irk to stake her claim in the impressive economic land rush Del had been staking through their intergalactic quadrant and had agreed to spare billions of souls in the Irken public of violent cannon fire against the planetary surface if her daughter, Sen, was married to an Irken man with the ability to ascend to the rank of Tallest, giving her own empire a firm hold over half of all operations happening in the nebula. Del had been reluctant but had no choice, knowing he was becoming far too old to properly care for a woman so young, and took Ipi's list of demands to rip open the greatest hunt in the history of the planet. Ipi was specific, barking orders and relaying rapidly changing opinions as her daughter looked through catalogue after catalogue of lavender eyed men stripped away from the front lines to be humiliated in photo shoots. Purple could remember his own, screaming back at his commanding officer when his long anticipated deployment was cut short and he was carted off to Judgementia to stand before the Control Brains for a PAK evaluation, passing the first round of mental processing with flying colors before being shoved ruthlessly in a side room to strip and have his body checked by the uncomfortable hands of medical drones poking at every inch of sensitive flesh they could find and running cold fingers over places that should never have been touched without consent for systematic scrutiny. Unlike many other males splayed like dolls on the buffet table for Sen to choose from, Purple hadn't seen combat yet and still had perfect, milky skin, something she found incredibly desirable when her five eyes finally landed on his photo in the back of her gargantuan, million man catalogue. He was barely six feet in height, towering over his subordinates and commanders alike as he was exposed to mortifying checks of his already embarrassing, still-intact virginity, having to answer invasively personal questions about his past partners before he was forced down into a scanner to evaluate how the sweltering glow of his pristine, feminine eye color would hold up as he aged.
Perfect.
He was deemed perfect.
And so, Purple had rose through the ranks overnight on his supple physical appearance alone, meeting with Tallest Del in his personal tower on the planet for an impromptu dinner he hadn't been all too thrilled to attend. He was honored beyond belief and floored when Del had slid his contract over the gorgeous imported wood of the table, asking him with a sweet, gentle smile to sign away the very essence of his youthful life to a woman he had never met to take over the powerful, omnipotent office of Tallest when Del finally passed away from old age. He was to be married off to Sen to ensure the peace and brotherhood of their two aristocracies, trading the simple life of the Elite for political conferences and disgusting, absolutely sickening lessons on how to properly walk, how to apply ceremonial rouge to his round cheeks, and how to address his future wife to gain the utmost respect from her family to finally bring the gruesome, sadistic warfare to an exhaustive end.
That had been two cycles ago.
In the meantime, his skin had been protected from the harsh sunlight with long fluttering robes to preserve his insipid paleness, his hands were manicured and slathered with opulent imported creams to keep them soft, and his teeth were sharpened monthly to maintain his pearlescent smile. He hated it. He'd become something of a disgusting puppet to the gentry, courageously speaking out a few times and finding himself callously starved of luscious food and much needed sugar to sustain his rapid metabolism until he would come crawling back to apologize for his supposed wrongdoings. He'd learned to hold his sharp, overbearing tongue, letting his words slip here and there on accident but overall becoming the picture of glittering, absolutely desirable perfection his Tallest wanted him to be. When the day had come for his official transport, he'd been more than nervous, wringing his hands and tapping his manicured claws over one another as his team of advisors prepared him to be shipped off for his first encounter with his new, unknown wife on her war-torn home planet shrouded in the icy grip of perpetual winter, dressing him in the plain, inconspicuous outfit of an Elite cadet to keep any Callnowian rebel factions still warring with Irk from taking notice of his status.
That was the catch…no one knew who was to marry Sen until it happened. He was to be shrouded in secrecy to preserve his own safety from assassination wrought by those who despised the Flesh Treaty on both the Irken and Callnowian sides of the board. Purple was instructed to never speak of his unwilling engagement, of his ascension as next in line to become Tallest, or his political clout until he was safely in his command chair with his wife aboard the Massive for all to finally recognize as their leader.
He swallowed down his need to fight followed by a wave of faint, anxiety induced nausea at what was to come, knowing he wasn't ever to be allowed true, unabridged freedom as long as he walked the galaxy and took planets as his own. He'd given in to his treacherous fate long ago, relinquishing his free will in exchange for the promise of control and luxurious living over the public he had convinced himself he craved.
Did he?
Did it even matter anymore?
Probably not.
Purple glanced up from his palm to where his advisor sat rigid in his seat, grumbling away at his earlier insolence before running his free hand inconspicuously along the outer seam of his thick, canvas uniform and shuddering at the immediate escalation of his pulse. He was supposed to wear this once, supposed to be normal. Normal…what a strong and weak word at the same time. Normal meant something different to them all. To the troops trudging along through chilly embankments below and chanting resonances to keep in time with the march of heavy combat boots, shooting and bloodshed was normal. They would fight, some would die for their homeworld, and others would return to husbands and wives to live out their eventual retirement in domestic bliss. To Purple, secrecy was normal. Talks about his body language, his well hidden and coveted virginity, and about which fork to use at a stuck up, formal political dinner were normal. No one knew him anymore, and he had no friends, only a team of ruthless examiners who's faces he had come to cherish purely because they were the only ones he was allowed to see.
Why couldn't he have been born to a bottom of the barrel Smeetery?
Why did his voice have to be so delicate?
Why were his limbs svelte and wraithlike?
Was any of this really fair? No…what was fairness? What did that mean? He was serving his esteemed race to the highest of his capacity, of which he was immensely proud and honored, but also deeply, depressingly alone. He told himself on a repeated loop that once he married Sen under the light of the Callnowian sun, that hollow, empty feeling would go away and finally be filled with the dazzling echo of self-worth and purpose. He would hit his stride in time and learn to be happy with what the universe had selected as his divine purpose, even if he longed for what could have been.
What could have been wasn't what should be. What should be was no longer what could be.
"Consort," The advisor began with a thick, gruff grumble, waiting for Purple's blank expression to draw back to his own, "we will be arriving at the capitol in four hours at our current speed. Go to the cleansing room in the back of the ship and reapply your night cream under your eyes, we need to make sure you look like you've slept for cycles. I want you to sleep for exactly two hours before you get up and wash your face, then we shall dress you in your formal attire when we are out of this rebel landing zone."
Purple blinked in misunderstanding, returning his curious gaze to the landscape and shrinking back a bit when he realized he had overlooked the incredible torment ensuing beneath him. Plasma canons overheated and boomed through Callnowian guards with pistols and raking their way on long, lean legs through the first wave of Elite operatives attempting to retake an Irken stronghold trapped deep beneath the snow as officers yelled in accented native tongues and flipped up rifle scopes to cleanly drop soft forms to nothing more than gooey messes of oozing lifeforce and leaking organs. Purple felt oddly unsettled watching the snow turn a mixture of deep black and bright pink with a concoction of sticky, viscous blood, glancing back to the scowling face urging him on as he dug under the seat for his ridiculously full nightbag and pushed himself up with a sigh, trudging off towards the back of the ship as the pilot kept them level enough for him to work.
How many soldiers were dying while he was living in awe-inspiring extravagance?
He shook the thought from his mind and carefully pulled open the tiny hatch to the even smaller cleansing room in the back, squinting when the florescent light of the mirror fazed on to greet him before slinging his cosmetics carelessly down with a sneer and pulling his glittery bag open. Repulsive, all of them. He set them up one by one, drawing his long antennae back and unbuttoning the scratchy collar of his Elite uniform to gain better access to his long, lithe neck as he dipped his fingers in exotic oils and slathered them liberally down his jugular, massaging his skin with the scent of faint feminine florals and moisture. He moved on to his lightly freckled face, struggling to unscrew a tiny pot of thousand dollar Plookesian night cream before dabbing it lightly against the slowly appearing, faint circles under his eyes.
"Dab it don't smear you might get wrinkles." Purple hissed sarcastically to himself, repeating the horrendous words of thousands of estheticians back on Irk showing him the proper way to smooth over his features.
Everything had a procedure, a ritual, a long list of ludicrous steps that just had to be followed or else a single sunspot could appear on his cheek or, Irk forbid, his antennae would lose the faint curl that had been worked into the tip.
Purple replaced the lid on the glass container and chucked it back into his case, moving to grip at the edge of the sink with clinking, nervously skittering claws, not wanting to look up out of fear of the man he would see staring back at him in the telltale, reflective silver of the mirror he knew would never lie. He took a deep, shaky breath before braving a tiny peek and shuddering in repelled silence and immediately peeling his hollow gaze away to clean up the rest of his mess. He couldn't look anymore. It wasn't that he wasn't pleasant to look upon, he was far more beautiful than anyone could have imagined him to be. He had become the peak of Irken flawlessness, but it wasn't him. His once inquisitive hands digging into disgusting biological matter and dripping it to his heavy work boots had been washed of their duty and replaced with a new objective that involved his exquisitely gloss shimmered, velveteen lips sipping overly-saccharine teas and laughing at absurd war stories before a gargantuan plasma fireplace with a bunch of snobbish aristocrats who couldn't give a damn about one another.
He picked up his cleaning with mounting fervor and trembling hands, nearly dropping a lavish vial of honied cologne Sen had requested he wear upon their first encounter before shoving it away with a hot growl he quickly swallowed down like a thick pill. No. He was to be Tallest and he could make his own decisions after Del was gone, calming himself and his frayed psyche to the idea of becoming everything he had ever dreamed and more. It was just a little stage play, a bit of acting, and some powdery makeup. After that, he would be a powerhouse of vicious armed ingenuity with millions of hot, sizzling plasma canons at his heartless disposal. He could sink his sharp, manicured claws into all those who had taken him from his purpose as a soldier and show them who the true boss was, a tiny smile peaking on his now-moisturized face at the image of the elderly advisors prancing him around like a living toy before their long dead Tallest's scrutinizing ruby eyes falling at the snap of his authoritarian fingers.
Those would be the days…he would bring a new world order to Irk.
Purple shot up in sudden alarm, rocketing backwards with a yelp when the ship sounded a blaring siren and dipped sharply to the left when it collided with something weighty and metallic, the sound of terrifying metal and thick glass shattering horrendously against their windshield and overtaking the peace. He scrambled against the smooth walls with aimless claws and flailing hands, throwing out his PAK legs for purchase when the ship veered and tumbled once more and threatened to vault him out into the corridor, latching against the thin floorboards as his pulse skyrocketed and his trained senses went on the defensive. He struggled to keep his rapidly fleeting bearings when the pilot barked something he couldn't hear over the roar and violent hiss of angry thrusters outside, their heat shield coming off in serrated pieces as they labored to stay in the atmosphere and took pounding, body-razing canon fire from an unknown source.
"Purple, get to the pod! There's an Irken bunker two miles beneath the surface further into the forest!" The pilot screamed from where he had fallen to his side against the dash under the sheer force of bone-shattering gravity. "You can't stay here! We're under attack from a rebel Callnowian faction! They're blowing all Irken forces out of the sky and-"
Purple cried out when another shot flashed across the windshield, obliterating the tiny pilot in a sizzling, charred heap of mangled flesh and grisly oozing blood splattered along the back of his command seat and staining the floor in puddles. He raced forward, clamping a hand over his mouth when his spooch lurched at the terrible, mind-bending realizations of what his coveted warfare actually looked like, the smell of metallic, liquid life dripping from the flashing central console as he dove for his elderly advisor from where he had pressed himself against the outside body of the ship in disturbed terror.
"Lire! We have to leave!" He cried over the whistle and tug of atmosphere rushing through the now exposed front of the destroyed, absolutely crushed hull of the ship, glancing back in terror when strobing warning lights and bleating alarms invaded his overstimulated antennae and set forward a ferocious ring in his already confounded hearing. He frantically grabbed for Lire's arm, shredding through the expensive silk of his jacket before gasping and immediately flattening himself to the floor panels when a Callnowian Charger zipped by through the ice cold, stinging wind and opened fire, riddling the outside compartment and blowing the fuel cannister as Lire's unsuspecting body was pumped full of thick, Callnowian steel. Purple clamped his trembling hands over his antennae and rolled gracelessly to the side when the ship began to dangerously loose altitude, spiraling into a death-defying nosedive before attempting to manually correct itself as the cooling unit combusted and took out what was left of the side escape pod, flinging the now mangled heap that had been Lire's confused, stunned body out into a limp freefall.
The stench of reeking coolant and singed flesh nearly made Purple gag on his own terrified lack of judgement, struggling to overcome wave after wave of agonizing fear scraping at his body and gnawing on his bones as he tried feverishly to shake himself free from his agony induced fugue.
He was alone.
He was alone and he was going to die.
Purple panicked, flying to his feet and feeling his mechanical extensions scrape dangerously against the grating holding him precariously upright as he let his gaze vault wildly about the cabin, searching for something, anything he could use to dampen his landing. He was going to have to jump; there would be no way the ship could correct its horrifying, rapidly encroaching crash course as he stumbled gawkily to the now open, blood soaked side panel that had been torn free, trying not to hyperventilate when his once perfect face was slammed with the crushing force of blinding, snow slicked air immediately chapping him beyond belief. He glanced up and froze as he went into shock, digging his fingers so far into the sharp edge of the metal that they bled as he locked eyes with the ruthless, bloodthirsty pilot opening devastating fire upon his transport vessel racing forward in a jet black, menacing ship heralding his doom like an unfeeling reaper come to take his soul prematurely from the universe he had yet to see fully. He squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for his unforeseen demise, holding his uneven breath as his terrified violet eyes filled with blistering hot tears and a sob choked in the back of his throat.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three.
By the fourth, no end came.
Purple let his eyes fly back open when he heard the formidable, distinguishable shriek of authoritative Irken blasters heating the air to steam and laying waste to the awful nightmare that threatened his life. He took a slow, featherlight inhale, adrenaline spiking in his body and forcing the world to slow to almost to a dizzying halt when he caught sight of the pilot behind the Spittle Runner erupting in thick clouds of smoke and flames. He was still going despite the dastardly leak of fuel spilling from the belly of his annihilated, near dead ship, his youthful face contorted into a fervent, violent war cry from behind his pilot's visor as his deep crimson eyes burned holes into his enemy's skull as his powerful blasters raked through sweet, tanned Callnowian flesh and neutralized the death sentence Purple was almost sure he was going to face. He couldn't move, stamped in place when his pulse skipped a beat and the officer slumped back in his seat to frantically try and untangle his safety harness and eject, Purple finally crashing back into his deafening, violent reality when the courageous, violent pilot ejected and faltered in the air, crying out in panic as his parachute refused to deploy and he went down over the deep blue of the foreign forest swallowing them whole and quickly vanished from sight.
Purple shook the grisly image from his mind and yelped, bracing himself as the thick canopy brushed the underbelly of his own vessel and threatened to take him with leafy fingers and razor sharp branches, throwing himself without thinking from the open side of the blood soaked chamber that had been his prison and into the fading light blotting out between steely trunks and the scarred landscape below. He tried to soften his landing, deftly maneuvering to the side as he counted his actions as he had done in training; one, two, three. He landed hard, the snowbank unforgiving as sheets of brutal ice cracked and shattered beneath his beeping PAK and sliced through the thin material of his dress uniform to open up thin gashes over his shoulder and cheek. His ship continued on for several yards before the forest claimed what was left of it's sputtering, oil-slicked life, the sound of wood and vines splintering under its horrendous weight resounding and scattering a flock of four-winged, flying creatures to the deep cerulean of the snow laden sky.
Then…silence.
There was no sound beyond the wind, no hum of canon fire scalding him from above, but only the thump of his rapid, overworked heartbeat ponding through his quivering antennae. Purple could hardly move, watching from below as the trees spun in his dizzied, unstable vison and his body reeled from the lingering stench of smoke and bodily fluids clinging to the canvas of his soot-charred jacket. He tried to sling himself up, making it over to his side before collapsing again and earning a face full of freezing, alien snow as he feebly groaned at the near numb, gradually radiating pain shooting up from his wrist. He attempted again, snaking his long PAK legs back into the internal compartment of his unit and grabbing for a slick rock with his good hand before wincing and crying out when a sharp, blinding pain rippled up through his arm and alerted his internal sedatives to kick in. He tried to flex his fingers, cursing under his breath and through his agonized tears when he realized he'd lost all feeling in his hand from a clean break to his wrist, cradling his stiff, throbbing appendage to his chest when he finally managed to erratically push himself up to his knees. He felt his form try to go into shock as his legs shook, laboring to steady himself up on his as tiny pieces of shrapnel and flaming debris cascaded leisurely down around him.
He couldn't stay here.
Purple whined to himself, trying to remain calm through his terror and take stock of what he had and where he was. He pushed forward, not really sure what direction he was traveling but assuming it was north based on the thick layer of bright florescent, winter moss growing upon the trunks of the trees. He had no weaponry, no flack jacket, and nothing to keep himself warm until rescue crews realized he had gone down somewhere on the distant outskirts of the Callnowian capitol city. They would eventually come to find him, but how long would that take? He stepped gawkily over downed twigs and tiny kindles flittering down, scooping up a flaming twig to carry along as he noted the deep slices over his arm, oozing vivid pink blood as it dripped lazily from his fingers to the white blanket below. He gritted his teeth and felt his world collapsing, knowing his wounds would soon be healed by his PAK through advanced medical treatment, but also knowing they would leave thin, imperfect scars in their wake. Callnowia was a vain society constantly searching for flawless perfection and beauty beyond what they already had, setting a deep, profound unease through the pit of Purple's stomach as he thought about what his future arranged marriage might hold when Sen saw his now war kissed skin. Would she even want him at this point? What if she tossed him out like trash and Del chose someone else to take his seat as Tallest?
What if he had gone through all his rigorous, shameful training for nothing?
Purple vaulted behind a gnarled trunk and froze when he heard a bad-tempered voice call out from afar, craning his trembling, frostbitten antennae forward to try and make out what it was saying in a desperate attempt to gain more information about where he might have landed. A few more responded, chattering leisurely in complex Callnowian he couldn't recognize as they raked through the forest and gutted what was left of his ship. Purple swallowed thickly and narrowed his eyes, slowly but surely moving back to glance at the strange scene unfolding beyond his precarious, improvised hideout. A troop of five officers had stopped at his distant ship, kicking at the pitted metal of the frame with nods of approval and little audible snickers placed here and there through the mottled radiance. They reached into the cockpit, digging through what was left of its incredibly meager contents as their four long arms tossed candy wrappers and his bag of makeup supplies out into the cold. One of the troops piped up when they noticed the glitter, stooping with a wide, toothy grin and blinking his five jet black eyes in bubbling excitement as he scooped it back up and sniffed it, waving it wildly for his commanding officer to see. Purple curled his lip in disgust when they spilled the contents, happy to be rid of them but utterly perplexed as to what they would ever need with expensive hand creams or deep emerald eyeshadows.
He braced himself, following his footprints back the way he came and flinching at the terrifying crunch of snow under his boots, finally slipping far enough from the crash sight to take a deep, much needed inhale and focus on the feeling of liquid sedatives pounding through his blood stream to try and mend his shattered bone. He had opted to drop his improvised torch, afraid it would attract too much unwanted attention as he shivered on and scooped up anything he found that could be useful. A screwdriver from an open toolbox. A single clip of ammunition from a long lost plasma pistol. A half eaten, vanilla snack cake thrown out when the horrific war had broken out further inland. He continued on for what felt like hours, trying to walk exclusively on the cobbly stones poking up through the thick, pillowy embankment to hide his tracks, slipping a few times and landing hard on his side to cry out in agony when he clipped his wrist on the unforgiving permafrost beneath him. If he could just find a clearing, an opening in the dense awning gaping for hundreds of yards above him and piercing the sky like exacting knives, he could light a signal fire with some of the rubber he had scooped up along the way. It would be a perilous, dangerous stretch, but Purple would have to risk being spotted by the enemy if he was ever going to be found by his own people out here in the middle of nowhere…or freeze to death.
He slung the remnants of a broken titanium rod he'd managed to tug free from a branch above his head over his good shoulder, beginning to feel the effects of the harrowing frost-induced numbness hit his aching toes as the steel of his boots turned arctic with every weakening step he shuddered through, talking to himself on a hushed loop to try and keep his face warm enough to relatively speak should he be found.
Should he be found.
Was…this it?
Purple coughed, watching as his balmy breath curled and fluttered like a phantom against the sweet-smelling frost, shivering violently as he stuffed tools into his pockets and curled into himself, attempting to roll his long sleeves down further over his hands but failing when he accidentally tore away some of the razed, threadbare fabric. His uniform was only meant to be a disguise to keep others from attempting to steal him for ransom and his idiotic advisory team had chosen to shove him in the thin basics, throwing a heavy respirator over his chest and hooking it to his PAK before calling everything good. He was meant to go straight from his flight on the Massive to his transport ship in order to meet Sen and Ipi in the capitol of Bornau and, by that time, he would have changed out of his faulty uniform into his dress suit for his long courting session inside the safety of his betrothed's home. He had no protective gloves, no communicator, no gauntlets. He didn't even have the long, shielding fleece that was supposed to shroud him against the rapidly dropping temperature, leaving his delicate, carefully protected skin exposed to the elements he hadn't had to endure for over two cycles. He'd become soft, pathetically delicate, and had lost most of his muscle tone from the lack of training he was allowed to continue on with, having to sneak impromptu hand to hand combat sessions with his bedroom wall before he was caught by his personal advisor, Lire, before his now…oh Irk.
Lire was dead.
Purple stopped dead in his tracks, unsure of how to feel when a tiny bubble of happiness popped deep within his psyche as a smile peaked and cracked over his frozen lips. The one man who had taken him from his old life to his new life of opulence under order of Tallest Del was finally dead. There was no more hand cream, no more glitter, no more eye shadow. Huh.
Purple snickered to himself and glanced up at what little of the sky he could see as a laugh escaped, echoing through the silence before dying when he noticed something strange, squinting up from below when he caught sight of something hanging aimlessly in the breeze. He blinked and shook the sting from his cheeks as he let his rubber slip to the ground and took a few cautious steps forward, reaching up with tentative hands to brush at the limp, half destroyed combat boots of the crimson eyed pilot who had taken out his attacker. Purple held back a gag when he realized the officer was most likely deceased, clamping a hand over his mouth before shakily pulling it away and stepping back to observe the full extent of his body. He'd taken a pretty nasty fall, scraping through branches and sliced beyond belief, his imperfect, scar covered skin undoubtedly used to the torture. His lavender gaze flitted up to the rank sewn haphazardly over the mystery man's shoulder plate, feeling his spooch drop at the horrendous realization as to who he was looking at.
He was a general. A four-star general.
Purple panicked, racing back forward in a frantic daze and stretching up on his toes to try and grab for the limp general's feet from where his razed parachute had tangled its way through the branches, finally latching the claws of his good hand into his sole to halfway yank him down. He yelped when the officer ragdolled over him, falling back to the ground when their bodies collided and his stale blood smeared up over his cheek to stain disgustingly at his blue skin. He was still warm, Purple gasping and flicking his antennae forward when he rolled him off to the side, listening desperately for any sign of life pounding through his body and stifling a victory shout when he heard the faint, frigid pulse of a debilitated heartbeat singing back at him through the cold.
He was alive! Broken and bruised beyond belief, but alive. Purple wasn't going to die alone! He wasn't going to die alone and maybe, just maybe, the General could hail someone back on Irk or the Callnowian capitol to free them from their neverending, frosty doom that was fast becoming a reality quicker than Purple had expected. The officer was warm, but unresponsive, his fingertips blackened against the knife-like wind and his viscous blood lolling down his chin from a deep plasma shot he had sustained to his side. Purple swallowed and thought back to his brief time in the field of science, unable to think of anything other than the bizarre feeling of wet life staining his hands as he pressed into the horrendously oozing wound to stop the bleeding.
Purple smoothed up over his antennae, smearing now cool, gelatinous blood across his face when he noticed them twitch without direction, desperate to find a name or a regiment as he dug through pockets and threw aside pointless items; snack wrappers, coins, a points card for a bar back on Irk. He cursed under his breath when the bizarre man who had saved his life mumbled something in hoarse, disjointed Irken, slurring out incoherent nonsense as Purple came up short and resorted to patting him lightly on the side of the face.
"H-Hey," he hissed through the slowly encroaching dusk, terrified that someone would hear and glancing over his shoulder when his nerves got the best of him, "hey. General…um…whatever your name is. Can you hear me?" He tried again, taking the unconscious officer by the jaw and admiring the long, thick scars long since healed over his neck from an old battle wound. "General? I watched you eject from your ship and your parachute didn't deploy."
Still silence.
Purple blinked, a characteristic hopelessness washing over him when he felt like he was conversing with nothing, instead moving to grab for the officer's plasma pistol secured haphazardly in his belt from his nasty descent, pulling it free and thrusting it into his own just in case. He knew they weren't alone out here; Callnowian and Irken rebels had been fighting amongst each other in the plains just to the south, meaning that there was a strong chance that the Callnowian forces were probably shrouding battle mechs and tanks within the cover of the forest. Not to mention the natural, phantomlike monsters skittering about without a care through the downed foliage, staring at them both with dubious intent as Purple picked up his search on the officer's body, tugging open every velco pocket and carefully snaking his hands down to the pouches slung around his waist, tugging loose the clasps and sighing in exasperation when he only found more sugar laden foods and candybars. At least they would be well stocked until their rescue crew arrived. The General remained disturbingly limp, drawing a grumbling, overly annoyed grumble from Purple's chapped lips as he forced himself up to a stand and grabbed him by the arm, maintaining his bearings when he remembered what his unfortunate pilot had told him before he was gracelessly murdered in cold blood by enemy fire. There was an underground Irken outpost somewhere around here that had been abandoned after the Flesh Treaty was initially enacted, buried deep in the dense undergrowth and mercilessly sharp tangle of trees. He propped himself up on his knees, attempting to shake the General awake with his good hand and biting his lip to the awful pain shooting up his other, trying not to let a mess of angry, frustrated tears cascade down his freckled cheeks and dehydrate him beyond what he already felt. He wanted to shout in agonizing despondency when the General didn't give so much as a twitch this time, antennae hanging limp in the snow as his precious body heat leaked away in waves from the plasma shot blistering disgustingly over his side. Great…now he was stuck with deadweight he definitely didn't need. But, at least he wasn't alone. He couldn't just leave the downed officer behind, knowing the nighttime creatures of the forest would take the easy opportunity to feast upon his flesh and rip him to shreds if he didn't tag along and…the General had saved his life, whether intentionally or not. According to the Irken code of war, a life saved is a favor earned, and Purple was indebted to the strangely intriguing officer until he deemed his payment fitting enough for them to part and finally go separate ways. He was stuck with the sugar-reaking officer, sneering in discomfort and chewing on his tongue as he thought. He moved back down, carefully brushing over his cheek with his chilly fingertips before prodding lightly at his eyelids, gingerly peeling one back and feeling his pulse race at the swelteringly powerful color glaring almost lifelessly back at him.
His eyes.
Red...no...crimson. Gorgeous, bottomless crimson.
Purple felt himself shudder in a mixture of frostbitten hunger and overwhelmed discomfort at the blistering hue he hadn't quite been expecting, holding his unseeing, glassy eye open as he stared him down with an unwarranted, almost scientific fascination. He'd never met someone with eyes so vivid, formless yet so stoic and practically glowing in the low light despite the dull sheen of bloodless eating away at their fringes. They were breathtakingly captivating, mesmerizing even, Purple feeling his feeble breath catch and ripping his hand away when he realized he had been lingering too long on something so unbelievably unimportant. It didn't matter in the moment; there would be time for observation, but now is was the time to keep moving to stay one clever step ahead of the perilous claws of danger.
Purple rolled his eyes at his own childishness and shivered violently through the snow, giving a tentative tug to the officer's flaccid arm with his good wrist before heaving him on, dragging them both deeper and deeper into the unknown together as his new comrade's blood splattered in tiny rivulets behind them.
"You...y-you better be happy I found you." Purple huffed, catching sight of a glinting hatch peeking precariously up through the snow and rebounding in the sunlight to blind him in the retinas just past a massive, steep hill dotted with rocks and icy undergrowth. If they could make it there, he could drag the General down the ladder and lock it from the inside, sealing them away from the horrors of the war closing in around them and buy Purple enough time to come up with a feasible plan. "You should also be happy I have some semblance of a conscious. I-I could have just left you here to rot."
He continued to strain against the pilot's weight, huffing and wheezing as his sore back threatened to give and his once powerful strength slowly returned from cycles of underuse. "Ugh, really? Can't you just wake up and walk yourself over there?" He grumbled to himself, halfheartedly hoping the General would pop up and tag along, but knowing he was wrong.
Nothing.
Go figure.
Purple groaned, long and low and wrapped his fingers snugly over the officer's wrist, digging his claws into his flesh and flinching when he felt the slow, but thankfully still steady pound of his pulse under his skin. He glanced up, feeling his anxiety skyrocket when he noticed that nightfall was quickly shrouding the forrested valley in her cruel embrace, jolting when he heard the terrifying chirp of Callnowian voices trailing a little under a mile behind them.
No. No, no, no!
He took off, tugging his heavy friend through the snow as he felt every muscle in his body burn under the sheer force and strain of the unknown Irken's form threatening ruthlessly in his comatose state to drag him down. He eyed the hatch in the distance, swallowing thickly as he panted and tried to maintain his composure, the sound of hunting animals scurrying through the horrendous darkness around them as he shivered and held back another thick sob.
He wasn't going to die.
They weren't going to die.
He wasn't going to let them.
Chapter 1 done! Hope you guys have a good night and the next update will be January 5, 2020 at 10:00 pm CDT (UTC-5)!